note: fiction! summer short #2

They let me off work early on a Wednesday evening – it must’ve been around 6pm – and I happily got on the uptown B to get to my apartment on 86th. I found an empty seat between a large black woman and a hairy white man. I took out my book – East of Eden by John Steinbeck – and started reading. At the 4th St. D stop, I spotted an Asian guy with spiked hair dressed much like myself – cream button down shirt and brown slacks with a black messenger bag – walking in and standing next to the metal pole a few seats away from me. He looked like he was a summer intern just like me at some bank downtown. Near him, I saw a thin thirty-something black woman with what appeared to be her child, a boy about seven or eight years old. I continued to read my book, but when I heard “Asian” from the mouth of the black kid, I found myself looking.

“Mommy, you think he Asian or Chinese?” he asked, pointing at the Asian guy.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?” the mother replied.

The black kid, who must’ve been bored out of his mind, inched closer to the Asian guy and made eye contact.

“Hey, are you Asian or Chinese?” he asked, cutting straight to the question.

“Um,” the Asian guy looked a bit confused, and I didn’t blame him. As an Asian myself, I don’t know how I would have set the black kid’s ethnic terminology straight.

“I’m Korean,” the Asian guy said. I approved of the answer because I am Korean as well. Also, while I’m sure me and the Korean guy are both Americans in our own right, saying “American” would probably have raised eyebrows because that’s just the way this damn country still works.

“Where’s that?” the kid asked.

“It’s a country next to China,” the Korean guy said, sounding like he didn’t want to answer anymore questions. The boy didn’t seem to satisfied with the answer.

“But you got them chinky eyes,” the kid said, “like this.” He pulled the corner of his right eye so that his eyes appeared slanted. I shook my head to myself as the black boy’s naivete had put the Korean guy, and myself, in an awkward position. “So what’s the difference?”

“Um. I don’t know. Koreans are better, I guess,” the Korean guy answered as he rolled his eyes and tried to turn away.

“Don’t you guys have small dicks?” the black boy asked. Suprisingly, the mother did not intervene and seemed to zone out as she looked out the subway window into the dark. I wasn’t too offended by the question because I’ve heard black dudes make fun of Asians about it before, but that a kid would say something like that to a total stranger was a bit surprising. I eagerly waited my fellow Korean dude’s reply.

“Um, I guess,” he said, remaining cool. I was a bit disappointed that the Korean guy didn’t defend himself, but I guessed that he had made a more “mature” decision to answer in such a way. But all of a sudden, he turned right back towards the black boy.

“Let me ask you something,” he said to the boy, “I could never figure it out. What’s the difference between a black person and a monkey?”

“What?” the black boy seemed taken aback.

“Yeah. You asked me if I was Asian or Chinese. I want to know, are you a monkey or black?”

The black kid was confused. Then he looked upset. He stared momentarily at the Korean guy. He tugged at his mom’s shirt.

“Mom! This fool just called me a monkey!” the black boy yelled. The mother turned towards her son and took a few seconds to process the statement and then another few seconds to react.

“What you call my son? How dare you?” she asked, as her volume began to rise.

“Whoa, relax. I was just asking him a question,” the Korean guy said, trying to calm the woman down. No use. I looked around the subway car, and I could see heads turning his way. I noticed that more than half of the car was black. Boy, was he fucked.

“This man here thinks blacks are monkeys!” the mother yelled. The little boy nodded and threw a mean look at the Korean guy.

A few teenage black guys wearing their XL t-shirts, baggy jeans, skull caps, and Timbs began walking towards the Korean guy. The fat black woman next to me gave a mean look at the Korean guy as well and almost looked ready to give up her seat to go confront the uncovered racist.

“You calling us monkeys, you fuckin chink?” one of the teens, about six feet tall but on the skinny side, tilted his head and sought an answer.

“No, man. Take it easy. I’ve got nothing against black people,” the Korean guy said, now looking a bit threatened. I wondered if I could have helped him, but I wasn’t sure if it was worth the risk.

“We let you chinks come to America and y’all think you white already? Calling us monkeys and shit. Well, fuck that. I ain’t taking shit from nobody,” the mother was now spitting expletives in front of her child. The kid seemed to enjoy the confrontation. I wondered what was going through the Korean guy’s head. Man, he was in such a bind! I wanted him to bounce at the next subway stop. He straightened his back and assumed a serious expression on his face.

“Fuck this. How dare you call me a chink? That’s like me calling you a nigger. You need to teach your son right – how the fuck you let him call my eyes ‘chinky’ and ask if my penis is small?” the Korean guy delivered with eloquence. Damn. Balls, I thought. All the black people seemd super surprised by the comment, but it didn’t look too promising for the Korean.

“Fuck you asshole. You called black people monkeys. That’s as bad as nigger in my book,” the tall teen said. “You better watch yo back. We’re gonna fuck you up.”

Just as the teen warned the Korean guy, the subway came to a stop at the Columbus Circle stop. The Korean guy seemed to walk backwards towards the door. A few people got in. The conductor announced the next stop. The ding sounded.

“Son, in my building, they don’t let niggers like you come near,” he said, just as he slid out the subway car walking backwards. The door closed as soon as he got out. The black teens, absorbing the full extent of the comment, tried to run out the door, but it had closed on them. The Korean dude flipped a bird that seeemed to touch everyone near the door – the two teens, the little boy, and the mother.

“That fucking racist piece of shit!” the mother yelled.

“Ain’t never seen a chink like that. They usually quiet and don’t speak English much,” the other teen, of a shorter, stocky build, remarked.

I returned to my book having witnessed a very bizarre incident. A million thoughts raced through my mind. I wondered how the Korean guy had such courage to confront igorance with such bold, politically incorrect language. In my mind, was he a racist? I don’t know – I bet he had black friends (probably from his college or maybe at his work), and he probably didn’t advocate things like segregation or discrimination. But then again, his words proved very flammatory and his last comment was the ultimate condescending remark someone could make to people who probably lived in the projects. I couldn’t quite figure it out. I was glad the Korean guy wasn’t passive and wasn’t afraid to reply to being called a “chink.” But then again, I was annoyed that such a huge deal had to be made because the little kid was so damn ignorant. Damn. What the hell do they teach at these schools anyway? No wonder rich white people always take taxis everywhere.

note: this is the first of a series of summer shorts – fictitious stories that aren’t very well thought out and not too good

—-

So I’m sitting here on the toilet. I didn’t feel like bringing a book with me this time. I just want to think about a few things – well, one thing in particular. Hold on. Let me get this piece out of the way.

—

Okay, so I’m a bit confused. Am I that insignificant? Today I saw her for the first time in two weeks. It was indoors – we were both checking mail at the student center. She said hi and asked what was up so so nonchalantly. Listen – my understanding is that when two people hang out often – let’s say at least four to five times a week, for about three weeks – there should be enough of a connection between the two so that when there is a two-week, unannounced hiatus, with absolutely no conversation, something MUST seem amiss, no? I mean, how many movies, outdoor walks, shared meals, late-night conversations, and bookstore visits must you have before the other person realizes that you have become – maybe not indispensible – but at least somewhat noticeable. Damn.

That’s why I told her I was doing fine, and asked her the same thing. She said she was doing well. Then she had the audacity to ask what I had been up to. Wow. Remember when we’d talk on the phone and make plans? Remember when we used to show up at each others’ dorm room doors and eagerly share the unusual moments of the day? I think I told you once about the black dude at the corner of 50th and Broadway who gives out those free AM newspapers each morning and tells me “enjoy your coffee” every time I walk by with a Starbucks in my hand. Man, it takes effort to share such details in life — did you ever miss it in the past two weeks? And you tell me you’ve been “hanging out with friends”; “going to the park”; “visiting musuems”; “even went to a Yankees game.”

Okay. Okay. Okay.

So I purposely stopped talking to you and stopped asking if you wanted to hang out. But I just wanted to see if you’d come to me and ask. You know – it was just one of those small tests. Well, I just had to know – if I didn’t always put in the first call, would you have done it instead? Every day sucked. I sat in my room. I downloaded bootleg movies and watched alone. I re-read the same websites. I masturbated. I got more sleep than usual. I walked by your residence hall and looked at where I thought your window was. I had an Instant Message box open with your screen name written in it, but never typed a single stroke – only stared at the buddy list to see how long you’d stay online. I know. I was just a friend. But I got jealous and then I convinced myself that I liked you.

Well, it was foolish of me to tell her. Hold on, let me wipe.

—

I like the water lukewarm because it lets me wash longer.

So at the student center. I asked her — you’re still single, right?

Of course, why wouldn’t I be, she tells me, as if I was supposed to have kept tabs on her life the past two weeks (well, she was right – I had).

The question was just to set the course for what was to follow.

What I wanted to tell you, I begin to say – already wavering in voice, confidence being let out like steam from a rice-cooker, I really missed you the past two weeks, and I know this may come as a surprise, but I really like you.

Oh, she is surprised. She avoids eye contact. I try to think of something to say. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward spot, I tell her, but be honest, am I way in over my head? It is the first time I use that expression and I wonder if I used it right or if she at least knows what I am trying to say.

Hey Mike, I’m sorry – you’ve been really nice to me, but I don’t think of you like that. I like you as a friend.. yada yada yada.. yeah bitch I know the rest, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard such words, in that order, before; I just thought it’d be different after three weeks of showing me that I was tolerable and even amusing at times. Fuck, I hate it when they run out of soap in here; hope my hands aren’t too dirty. So I put on a fake smile, and said that was cool and apologized again for the awkwardness, but that we should maybe grab dinner sometime soon. Of course she thinks that is “a good idea” but somehow we both seem to know we’ll never ever hang out again. She tells me she has to run and walks away, a momentary contact with the eyes before she quickly turns away and leaves. She was probably headed for the gym or to the park. She has a thin figure. For two weeks a forgotten man, and a chance meeting takes place only to help me to realize that she has never given two shits about me. Talk about feeling like a nobody — well, she had a decent face, but her body – let’s say tabletop on both sides, like most East Asian honeys do – definitely could have been better. I like to use the paper towel to dry my hands and then to turn the door knob so I don’t get the germs of the people who took dumps in here before me and forgot to wash their hands before they opened the door. I like to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I head out but not today. I should’ve played it cool and not told her. Maybe I failed a test or something – HER test. Or maybe those three weeks, while ego-boosters for myself, was community service, a charitable sacrifice, on her part. Fuck it. Time to mine the singles sites.

End.

-pk

The summer after fifth grade, I was riding my bike around the quiet streets of my suburban New Jersey town looking to gather up my friends for an evening game of basketball. I stopped by Matt’s house first and found out that nobody was at home. I rode down the hill to Eric’s townhouse and asked his father, who answered the door.

“Eric’s at a farewell sleepover party for Dong,” he told me. I was friends with Dong, and I knew he was leaving. I was puzzled as to why I hadn’t been invited. I went home and ate dinner with my family, and then rode my bike around town until it became dark.

“Eric didn’t want you there because he said you were too bossy,” Matt said, when I pressured him. I tried not to let my disappointment show, and instead, I played it cool.

“I see, I’ll have to talk to him, I guess.”

Eric was my right-hand man, ever since I taught him how to play football and helped him make friends when he first moved into our town after 4th grade. He was stronger and bigger than everyone else, but soft-spoken and generally considered a nice guy. He was also right about my bossiness. I enjoyed controlling the dynamic of our group – made up of around six to eight Korean kids – and it was important for me to have Eric by my side, using his physical presence to keep the rest in line with what I wanted for the entire group.

I met him at the park where we always played basketball. He was shooting by himself, wearing his beat-up gray tanktop and exuding a stale beer odor from his deodorant-less pits.

“Why did you do it?” I asked.

“Do what?” he asked, shooting as if he had done no wrong.

“You fucking excluded me from Dong’s party,” I said.

“Oh,” he said as he picked up the ball and turned his head down to the asphalt court. At least five seconds must have passed.

“Sorry.”

No eye contact, no excuses. I waited momentarily for an explanation.

Nothing.

“Well, whatever man, fuck this shit.”

I left the park, taking one last glance at him, holding the ball, perhaps wondering who had ratted him out about his betrayal. I dreaded the idea that we would have to address this issue later on, and even make some sort of conciliatory gesture towards each other. I even worried about the possibility of Eric taking over my position, if it hadn’t happened already, and making me the odd one out. Thankfully, my family moved to a different town in New Jersey a few months later. I never saw or talked to Eric again. Last I heard of him, he had become a drug dealer in high school and was soon expelled.